


The Line Between Wrath and Mercy

by dontcallmebree



Series: Do The Things You Never Showed Nobody [7]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Mob, Bearded Steve Rogers, Captain America Steve Rogers/Modern Bucky Barnes, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Mob Boss Steve Rogers, Modern Bucky Barnes, Personal Assistant Bucky Barnes, Shrunkyclunks, Steve Rogers is Not a Virgin, sorta Slice of Life or timestamps
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-16 20:47:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29213646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dontcallmebree/pseuds/dontcallmebree
Summary: It’s interesting to see Steve make a small spectacle of himself, as he so rarely does in public, even if such a thing for one Steve Rogers is simply not instantly disappearing into the background or thin air - or rather, into his car to make a quick get away.This is the difference between Captain Steven G. Rogers attending an event andmaking an appearance.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: Do The Things You Never Showed Nobody [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2022916
Comments: 34
Kudos: 153





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and we’re back!
> 
> This chapter is sponsored by Meraki_Moli. Sorry, I meant beta read.

Bucky’s retinas will never be the same. 

Broadway’s already bright enough, a beacon of light in the gloomy darkness that is New York City in February. But with hundreds of lights and cameras lining the path towards the theatre entrance, Bucky’s all but blind by the time they arrive at the doors.

Steve’s taken them on a leisurely stroll down the red carpet, choosing to take his time and ensure the press makes note of his attendance instead of the brisk journey they usually make to avoid too many pictures. 

It’s interesting to see Steve make a small spectacle of himself, as he so rarely does in public, even if such a thing for one Steve Rogers is simply not instantly disappearing into the background or thin air - or rather, into his car to make a quick get away. 

He doesn’t even spare the reporters a glance, much less stop for an interview, but the way he carries himself skillfully attracts just enough eyes, drawing the attention of the crowd to his presence. He’s in a slightly more flashy ensemble, patterns across the dark blue of his suit barely visible to the naked eye. The cut is loose around his waist, and there’s something about the ivory button up underneath, open around the collar and highlighting the coiled tension of muscles beneath without revealing anything, that exudes casual power and elegance. 

This is the difference between Captain Steven G. Rogers attending an event and _making an appearance_. 

Bucky tries to ignore all the looks on him, crawling up his skin and tethering their hooks into his flesh. It’s not a pleasant feeling, and he can understand even more than he already has why Steve avoids this kind of scrutiny, aside from the obvious reasons. 

But Steve’s arm is a calming anchor around his waist, guiding them towards the entrance without pause, and soon enough Bucky finds himself in the lobby amongst other attendees grabbing drinks and programs before curtain.

When Bucky presses fingertips into the corners of his eyes to make sure they are in fact still fully functional and intact, Steve’s eyebrows come together in concern, large warm hands gently pulling his away. “Are you okay? Sorry, honey, come on, we can find a quiet corner.”

Bucky waves off his worry, even as he blinks away the sports dancing across his vision. “How are you not doing worse than I am? Aren’t your eyes even more sensitive than mine?”

Steve shrugs it off, in that heartbreaking way he too often does where the real answer is that he’s gotten used to whatever awful thing Bucky’s brought up. Why this man who’s only ever tried to do what’s best for those around him is subjected to as many unpleasant experiences is beyond Bucky. 

They settle near a ledge where a framed poster is hung, a couple glasses of overpriced coke in hand, and Clint is quick to find him with Bruce in tow. “You actually came!” Clint exclaims, though his tone is noticeably different than it would have been had he said it at another event last year, this time full of excitement and pleasant surprise instead of barbed disbelief tinged with bitterness. 

“Can’t miss _Le Danceur_ , been looking forward to this for months,” Steve grins brightly, accepting the programs from Clint’s grasp courtesy of Pepper. It’s true that this kind of thing isn’t what Steve usually chooses to attend out of the many requests on behalf of the Avengers, preferring to come see and support the arts without the spotlight focused on his shield covered back, but tonight is special. 

Bruce’s eyebrows fly up in surprise. “You have?” 

“I know someone in the company,” Steve beams eagerly, and even Bucky can feel pride bubbling up from deep inside his chest. Clint engages him in talk about a new bakery not too far from their pilates studio that has a rotating 125 pastries on the menu, and goes on to invite Steve for a post work out tasting. Steve accepts easily, and turns to suggest, “You should come, Bruce.”

Bruce looks taken aback by the invite. While he might have been the closest thing Steve had to a friend when Bucky first got to know the team, recent years have built an unspoken animosity, weighed down by the many times he’s seen a side of Steve that isn’t so much Cap as it is a human person with a complicated life. Bucky can’t say that he doesn’t miss the days when he’d drop off books for Steve, and Bruce would invite him in for a quick cup of tea. 

He knows Steve likes Bruce, and the distance and occasional friction the latter has introduced to their relationship isn’t unnoticed, nor does it leave Steve unaffected. Bucky doesn’t have to ask his boyfriend his feelings on the matter, already knowing that the man sees it as something that’s due to his own faults - which is why this attempt at reaching out isn’t what he expected. 

“Pastries?” Bruce asks after half a minute of silence where he opens his mouth in what looks to be the start of a refusal but then closes it once more. 

Steve all but squares off his shoulders, dredging up enough courage to articulate his intentions. Bucky can only tell from the minute expressions across his face that he _knows_ no one else would catch. “It’d be nice to talk,” Steve does his best to vocalize smoothly. “We haven’t really spoken in a while.”

Bucky doesn’t know if it’s the rare vulnerability in Steve’s voice or simply his unusual request to spend time outside of work, but Bruce’s eyes soften a little, even if his forehead is furrowed in doubt. “I’ll think about it,” he murmurs, shifting his gaze down to his drink, and Steve graciously lets it go. He’s made his own excuses numerous times before, Bruce is entitled to a few of his own, at the very least.

Bucky doesn’t miss the side-eye Clint gives him but chooses to ignore it. He’s sure his friend will text him incessantly asking what’s gotten into Steve before the end of the night anyway. 

They talk to a couple more people, but don’t see the rest of the team until they get to their seats, Scott accompanied by a tutu-wearing Cassie in head to toe sparkly green. She looks more like a kid dressed up to see Wicked than the new musical about ballet, but Bucky’s not going to point it out and ruin her fun. 

Right before the lights dim and music swells, Tony grants Steve a long look and an only slightly sarcastic, “Nice suit,” giving him no time at all for an acceptable retort. Bucky swears he hears the dark haired man audibly snicker, while Steve mutters a quiet _that ain’t playin’ fair_. He has to pinch his boyfriend to get him to focus, as he’s sure Pepper is doing at the other end of aisle.

◆

The crowd around the bar and concession stand is buzzing with joy and praise for the show, more than half lingering to discuss the explosively triumphant yet bittersweet ending with anyone else around, and finish off their leftover drinks. 

Pepper and Steve are deep in a discussion on the nuance behind the main character’s costume changes throughout the second act when a loud and sharp, “Rogers!” cuts through the air. Ray, in all his glory decked out in an impressive maroon suit, has just come around the corner, a giddy 17 year old next to him. 

Steve lights up when he sees Ray’s beloved granddaughter, changed out of her ensemble costume and into worn jeans and a sweatshirt. She doesn’t hesitate to dash through the crowd, making a beeline for Steve and quite literally jumping into his arms. “Mel, you were amazing!” Steve gushes, crushing her into his chest. Bucky has to tug at Steve’s arm to remind him to let her breathe so that she can actually do the show again tomorrow night. 

Mel is put back down onto her feet soon enough, face flushed in glee and teenage excitement. “You liked it?” She leans back towards Ray’s broad frame to get a look at Steve’s face, searching for any signs of deceit. 

Steve clasps her firmly by the shoulders, shaking her a little out of disbelief. “Are you kidding me, kid? I loved it!” He reaches back to fish out the bouquet he and Bucky brought over, and Mel gasps, eyes round in wonder as soon as she sees the beautiful arrangement. “Congrats, Mel,” Steve kisses the top of her head, looking so genuinely blown away by the young girl.

He’s not the only one. Bucky comes in for his own hugs and kisses, still in awe of her making it to Broadway at only 17. “For the celebrations,” Bucky hands over a tote bag of assorted whiskeys, and Mel giggles as she accepts without a word. Ray only huffs a sigh in comment.

“You’re one of the dancers!” Pepper finally intervenes. “Steve didn’t say anything about knowing the company,” she throws a teasing, stern look his way, before turning back to Mel. “The show was wonderful, congratulations.” Mel is only a little starstruck by Pepper Potts, not quite used to star studded audiences as it’s only opening night, but most likely having been around big names in recent times.

“Thank you, Ms. Potts,” she demurs, only a hint of the teenager bouncing on the balls of her feet she was a minute ago leaking through. 

Ray throws a heavy arm around her shoulders, shaking her none too gently. “She’s a goddamn star! Didn’t I tell you?” 

“Yes, Ray,” Steve laughs warmly, patting him on the back. “We know, you don’t gotta tell us.” 

Mel grasps Steve by the arm, pulling him lightly. “Come on, come meet everyone backstage, gramps was just back there.” Steve raises his eyebrows, as if about to inquire further, but Mel beats him to it with a quick, “We just came out to get you, everyone’s got family coming, come on!”

Steve relents, and tells Pepper and everyone else an apologetic and frankly difficult to believe, “Sorry, I gotta go,” and quick goodbyes, before giving into Mel’s enthusiastic tugging at his sleeves. Bucky wonders if he should be more worried about the kid crashing from a sugar high than he is about her getting drunk at the after party. 

The worry is increased tenfold when they get backstage and everyone’s got heaping plates of donuts and cakes. He has the weird urge to get Mel to switch over to booze, and represses it. Just like she said, everyone involved in the show seems to have brought a family member or two, or for some, their spouses and all three kids, and they blend into the crowd seamlessly. 

Steve doesn’t have that Captain America sheen, especially after shucking his jacket and with Ray by his side, a chattering Mel interjecting every now and then with some story about the hectic hour before curtain when everyone was either losing their minds or biting their nails down to the quick. Everyone else seems to treat Mal like a little sister, the second youngest person after her a 20 year old trombone player. 

Steve ends up settling Bucky on an abandoned table covered in discarded wrapping paper and occupied at the other end by a woman Bucky’s pretty sure is the director. Steve drapes himself onto his side, making the most of the single available seating space as they listen to one of the principal cast tell some story about nearly ripping off his sleeve during a dance sequence. 

“You think Ray still thought we weren’t gonna make it tonight?” Steve asks while nuzzling into his hair. 

Bucky gulps down the little bit of champagne still in his glass. “Think?” he raises an eyebrow. “Steve, he was calling me to check in when we were in the car, I just had it on silent.”

Steve laughs, warm and amused at his old friend. There’s nothing Ray loves like his grandchildren, everyone knows that. “Did you have a good time tonight?” he cups the side of Bucky’s face, softened calluses against his cheek. It’s a sensation he’s become accustomed to, the rough glide smoothing over his skin like a calming presence. 

“Of course, I did,” Bucky scoffs. “Been a while since I’ve seen a show.” He feels his lips twitch into a smile, remembering taking his sisters every couple years as they were growing up. He’s always been fond of theatre, but buying decent tickets with any frequency when the money could go to cheaper extracurriculars for the girls was out of the question. “Becca was a theatre kid for a few years and I always went to her plays. Alice, too. I think the last show I saw was her senior musical. They did Little Shop of Horrors.”

“Buck, that was the last time you saw a musical?” Steve asked in horror.

“Hey, Alice was a great Background Dancer Number 3!” Bucky scolds him with a half hearted smack against his chest. 

Steve laughs into the side of his head, kissing his hair in apology. “I’m sure she was, honey.” Bucky looks up at Steve’s smiling face with a scowl, but the sight of those crinkles around his eyes and undeniably crooked nose is enough to earn forgiveness for almost anything. 

“Why would you ask that, anyway? It was a great show, you said so yourself!” Bucky gets a twinkle in his eye, ready to tease his boyfriend as he often does. “Unless you were blowing smoke up your ass,” he starts, but is cut off by Steve’s noise of offense.

The older man clutches at nonexistent pearls. “Like I’d ever _lie_.” Bucky rolls his eyes, used to Steve’s dramatics. “Nah, just wanted to make sure you were enjoyin’ it.”

Bucky shakes his head in fond exasperation. “I was, don’t worry, big guy.” Steve huffs at the nickname but makes himself comfortable molded against Bucky’s side, and returns his attention to the crowd, which has finally broken open the whiskey they brought. 

The rest of the night is filled with loud conversations with random members of the company, some actor’s cousin’s husband’s brother who comes bearing boxes of pizza, and one of the composers of the show. By the time they make it out into the crisp dreary morning, Bucky’s full of food and laughter, tripping over his own feet and staying upright solely because of Steve. These guys know how to throw a party. “Wait, gotta get Mel!” Bucky tries to go back through the door.

“She left hours ago, Buck,” Steve tells him patiently, and steers them back towards the car where Leo’s waiting. “Come on, honey, let’s get home.” Bucky follows happily, knowing that Steve wouldn’t leave anyone behind, murmuring a sleepy and slurred, “Okay, I trust you,” before slipping into the backseat and curling up on top of Steve’s broad chest. “G’night,” he manages to mumble before drifting off.

◆

Bucky very slowly folds up a shirt, pressing down on creases and fussing with wayward collars. He knows putting off packing won’t actually slow down time, but he’s got nothing else up his sleeve, so he’s going to have to make do with this. Tricking his brain into thinking that the hours are stretching longer is apparently his last resort. 

Steve lumbers through the door, sighing exasperatedly when he sees Bucky with only a quarter of his suitcase filled. Most of what he’s got in there right now are socks. Unless he’s planning to streak through Boston, he needs to pick up the pace. 

Large, all encompassing arms envelop him from behind, Steve’s scratchy bearded face finding its place in the crook of his neck. “You need any help there, Buck?” he asks pointedly, the loud rumble tickling his sensitive skin. “‘Cause you been in here an hour, and I really hope all ‘a Boston ain’t getting the kinda view it’s lookin’ like they will. That’s just for me, honey.” 

Bucky snorts, even as he rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. What, you wanna mark me up just to make sure no one else gets to touch?”

“Hmm,” Steve kisses behind his ear and down his neck, trailing more pecks across his shoulders and tugging at the collar of his t-shirt to get access to the path down his spine. “Where should I do that, huh?” Warm hands creep underneath his clothes to paw at his torso, searching for an appropriate spot. “It’s gotta be somewhere worthwhile if you’re just wearin’ socks.”

“If you’re thinking of sucking a bruise onto my dick you can forget about it,” Bucky warns, and Steve bursts into uncontrollable giggles, apparently the simple image of it getting to him. 

“Bucky, what the fuck?” Steve manages to get out once he catches his breath, roping him into reluctant laughter. “I don’t know about the bruise, but you know I’m always up for sucking your dick,” Steve offers. Bucky half-heartedly pushes him away, but Steve remains clamped around him. “Aw, come on, I won’t see you for days, sweetheart, blowjobs are gonna start bein’ a distant memory.”

“Shut _up_ , Steve, you’re making me want to pack faster just so you can stop badgering me,” he grumbles, faking annoyance and finally filling his suitcase up with the clothes he’d painstakingly set aside and folded up. 

Steve straightens up and smacks a loud kiss onto his cheekbone, announcing, “Then my job is done!” He grabs the last pieces of clothing, a pair of jeans and pajama pants, throwing it on top of everything else. “Alice promised me she’d sneak in a couple jars of that handmade novelty jam in your bag before your trip back if I got you to hurry up.”

Bucky narrows his eyes and gapes. “Traitor!” 

“Sorry, she just knows exactly what I like,” Steve kisses him in apology, and Bucky scrunches his nose in return because he will _not_ be so easily swayed. “Hey, you okay?” Steve comes in to give him a real kiss, soft lips parting his own and tongue licking his bottom lip after a playful nip, all but zapping the anxiety out of him. 

“Yeah,” he sighs once they break apart, Bucky giving Steve’s chin a couple last pecks before letting him go completely. “It was just nice to have her home for a while.” 

Steve strokes down his back, offering as much comfort as physically possible. “I know. She’ll come visit again soon.” He takes over zipping up his suitcase, and picking it up to set down on the floor. “Somethin’ tells me she missed you too.” Bucky doesn’t know what kind of heart-to-hearts those two have been having, but he can only hope that Steve’s right. 

Bucky musters as much of a smile as he can, taking the suitcase and finally rolling it out. They’re all ready to go in the afternoon, Steve having packed them lunch and snacks like the trip will last more than a short four hours. Neither of them are complaining, though, not when the food’s probably better than what they’d get at most restaurants.

Bucky clutches onto Alice’s bag like a lifeline by the time they get to the trunk, unable to keep the words, “Maybe just one more week,” inside any longer. Alice sighs in frustration, looking to Steve for help. If she was expecting him to take her side, she’d be wrong. One warning glare from Bucky and Steve ducks his head back down and focuses on loading up their bags.

“You’re acting like you’re never going to see me again,” Alice whines, tugging the duffel out of his arms and passing it to Steve to put away. “For fuck’s sake, Bucky, you’re even seeing me _tomorrow_ , what with coming along and all.” 

She’s right, of course. Alice is finally heading back to Boston, and he’s not sure if she could smell the misery coming off him or if, by some miracle, she’s been missing him half as much as he misses her, but she suggested he come stay for a few days. At the time, it sounded like the easiest way to let her go, being the one to have to leave and say goodbye at the end of the week instead of dropping Alice off at the station in New York.

That was past Bucky, though. He’s grown increasingly more morose as they get closer and closer to the trip, knowing that it means he’s only a few days off from being hours away from his baby sister yet again. Why he ever let her leave the city is beyond him.

Bucky pouts, helping Steve close the trunk and reluctantly getting into the passenger seat. Becca isn’t even coming with them, having left for a work trip a couple days ago for the week. _All of his sisters are leaving him._ How could they? What did he do to deserve this?

Huh, maybe Steve’s more dramatic side has been rubbing off on him. What is it that they say about couples starting to resemble one another? He was hoping that he’d get Steve’s muscles and artistic abilities, not his penchant for the dramatics. 

“Steve, do you want something berry or citrusy? Gotta get that jam order in now,” Alice singsongs from the backseat. 

Steve grins from ear to ear, voice sweet as honey as he asks, “Blackberry, please.”

Bucky plugs in his phone as they pull away from the curb, already putting together the perfect playlist for the day. As soon as NSYNC’s _Bye Bye Bye_ comes on, Alice groans in protest. Bucky has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing, because he has to admit that at this point, he’s just messing with his baby sister. He can’t wait for when they get to Fleetwood Mac’s _Go Your Own Way_.

◆

△

Maia looks just as frustrated as her daughter does about the brownie mix in hand. Steve wants to tell her how criminally appalling it is to even _use_ Betty Crocker when he’s got the best recipe since 1910 courtesy of Sarah Niamh Rogers, but he’d rather not get another ten minute lecture about being a mother to a one and a half year old - complete with a refrain on starting potty training. 

Steve values his limbs and the fact that they’re attached to his person, so he’s not going to poke the bear. Instead, he offers to take Rhea off Maia’s hands, seeing as the kid’s been trying to grab every box in reach. “Jesus, I need a massage,” Maia groans when she takes off the baby carrier and hands it over, kneading her own shoulder.

Steve gets it on quickly without much fuss, tucking Rhea in with only a couple boxes of funfetti cake making it off the shelf and onto the floor, to the kid’s endless entertainment. He tries his best to catch her grasping hands in his own and prevent further tragedy once he returns the boxes. “You should go today, I can watch Rhea.” 

“Hmm, maybe,” Maia rolls her shoulder a couple times, groans of strained muscle audible in the silence. Steve winces in sympathy. “You just want company while Bucky’s gone,” she accuses him of using her child for his own gains.

“Doesn’t change the fact that you can get a massage,” Steve points out. “Besides, how I fill the empty void in my life’s none of your business.” 

Maia shakes her head in disbelief, stating in a deadpan voice, “He left _two days ago_.”

“And it’s been a harrowing two days, Maia,” Steve assures her solemnly with just as much of a straight face. The quirk of her mouth betrays her amusement, no matter how much she purses her lips to try to hide it. 

She came down for a visit yesterday, and they’ve been spending as much time together as possible. Steve wasn’t kidding when he said he misses Bucky like a missing limb. He always forgets how attached at the hip they usually are until they have to spend time apart. Sam got tired of his whining 24 hours in, and passed him off to Maia unceremoniously. 

Maia’s banned him from waxing poetic about Bucky out of misery, claiming that she’s two seconds away from leaving Steve to his own fate if he doesn’t rein it in. Well, at least Rhea seems happy to have his company.

“Hey, isn’t that one of your teammates?” Maia asks, eyes glued to someone at the other end of the aisle. Steve whips around and sees none other than Bruce busying himself with picking up some flour and other assorted baking goods, his basket already half full. If he’s trying to hide the fact that he’s spotted Steve, however, he’s not doing a very good job of it.

Steve nudges the shopping cart towards Maia. “Why don’t you go ahead and go through your list? I’ll keep Rhea out of your hair and catch up later.”

Maia’s eyes flit over to Bruce and back again. “Okay,” she kisses Rhea on the forehead a couple times to her delighted squeals of _Mama! Mama!_ before leaving to finish her grocery shopping. 

Steve bounces Rhea lightly when she wiggles in a fruitless attempt to follow at the sight of her mother leaving, and is soon successful in calming down her babbles of protest. He wastes no times in approaching Bruce, nor does he put on any pretense of not having seen the man.

“Baking kinda day?” he asks in greeting. 

Bruce chuckles, gently placing a bag of all purpose flour in his basket. “Trying out a few recipes.”

Rhea chooses that moment to grab onto the other bag of flour in Bruce’s hand, and tugs hard enough to pull it forward by an inch. “Shit, sorry,” Steve grabs onto Rhea’s hands again, tucking them against her chest. “Rhea, baby, you can’t do that.” 

Bruce gives the one and a half year old an odd look, though a friendly smile makes its way onto his face when Rhea grins toothily at him. “Where’s Bucky? I didn’t see him around.”

“Oh, he’s out of town with his sister,” Steve shrugs. “Just me and this little lady for a bit.” Another indecipherable look crosses the curly haired man’s features, and Steve can’t for the life of him figure out what could possibly be making him act so jittery. He knows things have been tense between them lately, but he’s usually able to read Bruce well enough to know what kind of landmine filled terrain he’s embarking on. “Is everything okay?” he decides to ask outright.

“Ah, well, to be completely honest, I was expecting you to make yourself scarce when you saw me,” Bruce confesses. Steve furrows his eyebrows the slightest bit, because it’s not like he hasn’t given the impression of wanting to separate his private life from that of the one he has with the Avengers. And he does, really, through maybe not in such a clear cut manner anymore. What takes him aback is the next words coming out of Bruce’s mouth, an unrepentant, “I mean, seeing you with another woman is-”

“Excuse me?” Steve splutters, at a loss for anything else to say out of sheer shock. 

Bruce shuffles on his feet, shifting the basket from one arm to another. “I’m not going to pretend I didn’t see you, Steve. I know you like your privacy, but-”

“I wasn’t- That was not!” Steve pinches the bridge of his nose, giving up his hold on Rhea’s wandering hands. “I wasn’t _with_ another woman, _jesus fucking christ, she’s my- My friend_ ,” he hisses, unable to hold back the simmering anger. “I’m helping watch her kid because it’s hard to run errands with a toddler, I’m not _cheating_ on Bucky!”

Bruce has the gall to search his face for any signs of lying before deflating with a barely audible, “Oh.” He fiddles with adjusting his tortoiseshell framed glasses before looking back up at him. “I’m sorry, I misunderstood.”

Steve swallows down the anger, a tremulous thing that’s slowly morphing into something painful deep in his gut. He ducks his head and comforts himself in Rhea’s soft curls, though he can’t help but ask, “Is that really the kind of man you think I am?” the words already making it out before he’s made the decision to to utter them aloud, much less hide the hurt in his voice. 

A little bit of remorse leaks through the lines on his face, but Bruce is matter of fact when he says, “I can’t say that I know what kind of person you are, really.”

Steve shifts a step further away from the shelves in front of him, not wanting to deal with another five fallen boxes if Rhea decides to go back to her favorite past time. “Guess I deserve that,” he laughs, low and humorless. 

Bruce gives him a long look, before turning to pick up a can of baking soda. “If there’s anyone that can understand having a life to want to keep to yourself it’s me, Steve. I’ve got the other guy, and I’d rather he wasn’t everyone’s business,” he sighs, sounding more weary than ever. “Maybe we all do, and mine’s just a little bit more dangerous than most.” He goes through the pile in the basket, seemingly satisfied with his haul. “Can’t say I resent you for wanting to be left alone.” 

“What if Cap’s my other guy?” Steve finds himself asking. 

Bruce smiles, eyeing the way Rhea’s content to be strapped onto Steve’s chest and keeps reaching up to grab a hold of his beard. “I wouldn’t be surprised.” 

Long after they’ve parted ways, when Steve’s on his own with his goddaughter to give her mom a break and some time alone at the spa, Steve still can’t stop comparing himself to the Hulk. Unlike Bruce, he knows full well that Steve Rogers is the more dangerous of his two selves.

▽

◆

Bucky can’t say he saw it coming. Maybe that’s on him.

He was told a few celebratory drinks at the usual Irish pub, just so everyone can come say hi if they want to, but what he walks into is what looks like fifty of the Roshars crammed into two bars, most of whom are already a couple rounds in. 

Cheers erupt as he comes through the door, Sam at the forefront of the crowd and pulling him into an inescapable hug. He gets two wet smacks on either cheeks and a loud, “Goddamn, you look good!” before Steve pries him out of Sam’s hold. 

Dani and Clara crush him in between their bodies as soon as they can with their own well wishes, and he can see everyone he can possibly think of in the crowd. Wanda and Pietro are at the bar, Erica most likely with a babysitter overnight, Scott’s in the corner with Leo, Gen, and Deena, and Pete’s grinning from ear to ear off to the side. Even Ray and Mads are there, with their obligatory drinks in hand. 

“Happy birthday, honey,” Steve says into his ear, the low voice sending a shiver down his spine and warming him to the tips of his toes. He turns around for a long kiss, tasting the sharp bitter chocolate of their dessert on Steve’s tongue, swiping his own over it and luxuriating in the feeling of those soft lips on his in a marked contrast from Steve’s playful bites. 

He’s helpless from groaning in pleasure at the feeling of being so loved, knowing that he’s owned just as much as Steve is. His fingers tighten their grip at the nape of the older man’s neck before letting go, even as Steve’s hands stay nestled on the small of his back. Another softer brush of lips or two later and he rocks back down from his tiptoes, coming down to earth feeling as soft and malleable as ever, the center of his chest simultaneously mushy and bursting in delight.

Bucky hides his smile against Steve’s collarbone before asking, “You got everyone here for me?”

Steve cards his fingers through his hair, playing with its curling ends. “They all wanted to come and celebrate, but Sam’s the one who got everyone together.” He bites down a smirk. “I’d rather you didn’t thank him in the same way, though.” 

Bucky smacks Steve on the chest, but loses himself in laughter just from sheer joy. It’s almost painful how much happiness is building up in his person, making him feel like he’s about to explode with emotion. He whirls around to find Sam and drag him into another embrace, and gets corralled to the platters of food. 

Everyone comes up to him over the course of the night, exclamations of both simple and grandiose birthday wishes. He gets so many hugs and pats on the back he’s half worried he’ll bruise before the night is over. 

It’s heartwarming to know that this many people think so well of him, that he’s loved and valued in this loyal group of hardworking men and women who he works with and talks to most days. He’s not dumb enough to not realize there are still a few people in the Roshars who see him as nothing more than a pretty face at Steve’s side, but Sam isn’t a fool either and have obviously kept them away from the festivities. 

“It’s on this drive, too, so you can print out more!” Pete hands over a USB drive in addition to the set of prints already in Bucky’s hands. For a birthday gift, Pete’s given him a set of ten large full color photographs of himself at the house, some of them on his own when he was working or in the kitchen, some with assorted members of the Roshars, and more than a few with Steve. 

None of the pictures show anything to do with Roshars business, of course, but they’re all candid and shot beautifully, and he honestly can’t figure out how and when they could have been taken. There’s one of him and Steve tucked into the hallway by the back room where Rita’s office is, curled around each other in front of the waning sun coming through the window that he knows is going to join the medley of art on their wall at home. “Pete,” he breathes out.

“I’m so sorry I took the pictures without asking, but Steve said it’s okay and that you would really like it and-” Pete’s eyes grow wide as they swivel towards Steve. “Not that it’s _your_ fault!”

“Pete,” Bucky laughs, and pulls him in for a quick and heartfelt hug. “I love it, thanks, kid.” 

“Oh,” Pete’s cheeks warm rapidly. “You’re welcome. Happy birthday.”

Clara coaxes him into taking too many shots with her, and there’s cake and candles to blow. He cajoles Steve into spending a considerable portion of the night dancing, with increasingly detailed filthy promises that he intends to keep in the next 24 hours. He moves with focused intent up against the blonde for two whole songs and has to be kept still by Steve’s unyielding hands before they make a mess of themselves. Bucky flashes a wicked smile and a short, earnest kiss, untangling their limbs and dragging them back to the bar to feast on more food. 

All in all, Bucky ends his 28th birthday with a bang.

◆

Sounds of rustling sheets slowly invade his sleep, and Bucky lets out a light groan in protest. It doesn’t feel like sunrise yet, and it sure as fuck doesn’t feel like a reasonable time to get woken up without warning. 

Warm fingers caress the side of his face, and a hoarse voice thick with sleep whispers, “Ssh, go back to sleep, Buck.”

He soon realizes that what woke him up wasn’t the movement across the bed, but the sound of Steve’s ringing phone. The realization only comes with the absence of that awful noise, and Steve’s barely understandable grumble of, “What d’you want?” 

Bucky can feel the second the muscles of Steve’s torso tense up, the warm pillow beneath his head turning into a rock hard slab on a dime. It’s like ice cold water over his body the way it wakes him up and pushes him upright in bed. 

Steve hasn’t said a word, but the lines on his face have never been more prominent than they are right then in the shifting darkness. Harsh light from the phone screen is reflected in the whites of his eyes, and the pain etched around the hard line of Steve’s mouth is unmistakable. He finally croaks out a rough, “Yeah, okay,” and hangs up. 

“Steve?”

Steve clears his throat, looking over at Bucky with resignation. “It’s Leo. He was on a job.” Bucky doesn’t know who reached out for whom, but their fingers have intertwined between them, slack over the blankets and inexplicably tangled. “The wake’s tomorrow.”

Bucky swallows, and shuffles to close the small distance between them. “Okay,” he rests his head on Steve’s shoulder, and they lean on one another until sleep comes over them again, and daybreak finally wakes them up for good. 

The house is somber, losing someone as young as Leo always hard on everyone. It happens all too often. They’d comforted Leo’s friends and family at the burial, most of them from the neighborhood. 

Bucky’s far from unfamiliar with loss, but he’s come to live a life that’s almost always filled with it, the threat seemingly at every corner. He can’t be anything but impressed at the Roshars’ ability to deal with it so easily, the grief carried over not just on the day of the wake but in the coming days and months, whoever it is forever remembered and beloved. 

The familiar pain no one seems to be a stranger to, the process of grief everyone’s familiar with and well practiced in, are both graceful and unbelievably heartbreaking. This is part of the day to day of the Roshars - death and loss. Steve always takes it hard when anyone gets fatally hurt on the job, even though there’s nothing to do but keep going. 

So the Roshars move along day in, day out, business as usual. Everyone’s still working to make a living, even when one of their own is gone. The space where Leo used to be is a blatant gaping hole in their lives. It’s not something any of them ignores, the memories of the man shared without hesitance and already tinged with the sepia tone of nostalgia. Through it all, the ache from what went down the night he passed is still undeniably present among the Brooklyn Irish. 

Sam finds him one day at the house going through the books, sorting out some money Leo’s left for a few family members, and some additional help the Roshars are affording them in lieu of Leo’s passing. “You okay, Bucky?”

“Yeah,” he shrugs. Sam settles at the table across from him, taking a look at what he’s been working on. “Roy hadn’t gotten around to these so I offered to help.” 

“That’s nice,” Sam grants him. “I know you guys were kinda close,” he muses. 

Bucky watches Sam watch him, and he’s never felt more at home with someone who isn’t one of his sisters or Steve. Sam’s the first person who comes to Bucky’s mind when looking for support, whether it be to help with something to do with the Roshars, any personal problems, or just to have a good time with a friend. Bucky’s lucky that he’s gotten the chance to know the man in front of him and spent countless hours filled with laughter together, and he’s a little sad for everyone else who doesn’t. “So were you.”

Sam sighs, picking up the envelopes Bucky sealed for Leo’s family members. “Yeah, I guess we all were.”

“Ayisha said she’d deliver those. She’s out front,” Bucky tells him, packing up the books to return to Rita in her office. Sam nods and follows his instructions, going to find Ayisha outside. 

Bucky finds Rita in the back, working at her desk. “All done,” Bucky announces, shelving the books in their place. “Is there anything else that needs wrapped up?”

“No,” Rita takes off her glasses and straightens up, cracking her knuckles. “Just dealing with Rafters next. I think he knows exactly what kind of trouble this is gonna bring him. Been quiet for a couple weeks.”

“I hope his fears are proven right,” Bucky says with not a small amount of ire. Rita sends him a look, stern and pointed. “Leo was my friend.”

Rita gets up and rounds the desk, placing a calming hand on his arm. “You don’t have to worry about that.” She steers him across the office to the couch, and flips over a second blue patterned cup by the awaiting steaming pot of tea. “Come on, let’s have a bit of a break.” 

Bucky has no choice but to join her, though he’d accept the offer anyway. “Is he done in Brooklyn?”

Rita purses her lips at his insistence on discussing work during their so called break, but he doesn’t much care at the moment. “He’s been done in Brooklyn ever since his inability to pay those debts,” Rita assures him, but makes sure to add, “Now we’re to expect Rafter Rounds to end their business across all of New York.”

“Guess it’s not hard for the competing paper manufacturer to take over his clients,” Bucky thinks aloud. 

“And Chicago, too.” _That_ catches his attention. He lifts his eyes to meet Rita’s striking pair, the mind behind the operations of a century old crime organization. He can never forget that little fact when she’s got those eyes of steel. “They heard what happened, and were all too happy to follow our lead. I didn’t even have to ask.”

Bucky mixes in milk and sugar into his tea. “Steve will be happy to hear something good _can_ come out of the truce.” Rita sips her hot drink without pause, but Bucky chooses to _not_ live dangerously and blow onto the dark milky tea in his cup. He takes a few careful sips once he’s sure it’s cooled down. “I miss him.”

“Me too,” Rita takes his hand in her own, the smooth taut skin of his own a stark difference against Rita’s darker toned and slightly wrinkled hand. 

Steve finds them chatting about the salon down the street where Diane cuts both of their hair every month or so, and joins them for a cold cup of tea. When scolded by Rita to heat up more water in the kitchen, he refuses and chooses to obstinately drink his cupful at an abhorrent temperature. 

Bucky soon leaves those two to talk, and joins Sam in the living room, now joined by Dani and Clara finishing off the last of the leftovers from the wake. Dani’s even repurposed some of them into new dishes. “Try this, Bucky, I think it might be a little too sweet, but you can never have too much of that,” Dani slides over a heaping plate of, well, something he hasn’t got a name for. 

It’s a mishmash of colors and textures, and it is _very_ sweet, but he compliments Dani on the attempt anyway just to watch the satisfaction bloom in his eyes. “There is _definitely_ such a thing as too sweet,” Clara interjects after having a taste. Dani vehemently disagrees and the two get into a heated debate on the subject, while Bucky nudges the plate closer to Sam, who sees his motives from a mile away and chooses to keep to his own share. 

Oh well, he tried.

Steve and Rita come out less than an hour later and help them clean out the fridge, making sure nothing will go bad and eating their way through multiple servings. “What’s that?” Steve asks, pulling Dani’s concoction closer. Bucky and Sam encourage him to eat it, and when he does, his eyebrows furrow for half a second before smoothing out and giving into the inevitable fate that is finishing the whole damn thing. “I like it,” Steve shrugs, and Bucky scrunches his nose in distaste. 

“You’re so weird,” Bucky kisses the corner of Steve’s mouth, making sure to avoid the sickeningly sweet snack. 

Steve swallows and scoops up the last bit left on the plate. “Yeah, but you love me anyway,” he smugly counters with a dopey smile. Bucky doesn’t bother to dignify that with a response, knowing that he’d end up looking like the fool who’s in love with a big, giant doofus. Mostly because he is. Some things are inevitable, after all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any thoughts at all? Complaints? Opinions? All welcome!  
> Next chapter up in about a week.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Insert pre-recorded commercial bumper here.
> 
> Still beta read by the ever so generous Meraki_Moli.

Summer comes over New York with a vengeance, putting its people through unbearable sweltering temperatures, stifling humidity, and the kind of heat that doesn’t let up even when the sun sets and the chill of the night is supposed to be a welcome break. 

To be fair, they probably deserve it. 

It’s only the end of May, and it already feels like the height of the season. Which is why Bucky’s not even a little bit surprised when Steve not so subtly tries to broach a subject he’s been circling around for the past few days, running a rough, caring hand up and down his bare back where he’s sprawled across the older man’s body on the chaise lounge. “What are your thoughts on pools?”

Bucky places chaste tender kisses up Steve’s sternum, across his pecs, and onto the underside of his jaw and chin. The thick beard is as soft as ever under his lips and fingers, and he can’t imagine how hot it must be - not that Bucky would ever encourage shaving it. He’s seen Steve without facial hair twice in the past four years, and every time, he can’t help but miss the enticing burn that would otherwise come with wherever Steve brings his mouth. “In general?”

“No,” Steve says slowly, smoke curling past his lips towards the open windows of the studio. There’s barely a breeze, but the gentle wind coming through is still a nice respite, cool against their skin and the slight sheen of sweat still clinging onto both men. 

They’ve only cleaned up perfunctorily, traces of lube and come still coating various body parts, but neither of them is itching to move from the blissful afterglow haze. “Well, yes, but I was just thinkin’, pools are always nice in summertime,” Steve goes on.

Bucky continues his ministrations, sliding further down between Steve’s spread legs and towards his spent cock, pressing his lips across the shaft and down to his balls, smiling in satisfaction when the man twitches in response and cuts short the drag he was taking when the cigarette leaves his lips. 

When Bucky still says nothing, finding the thick thighs under his hands much more interesting, Steve pokes him in the cheek with a whine of, “Don’t you think?”

Bucky sighs, and turns to face the blonde, folding his arms across Steve’s hips to prop up his chin. “Yes, dear, pools are very nice.”

Steve lights up, wiggling slightly on the cushions and carding his fingers through curling locks falling over Bucky’s forehead. He’s not even commenting on Bucky calling him _dear_. Bucky’s honestly worried now that Steve thought he was saying it without irony. “I’m glad you agree!” quickly leads to, “Let’s get one for our backyard.”

“Let’s what now?” Bucky can’t help but gape.

“We’ve got a sad lookin’ half garden out there,” Steve flicks his cigarette at the view of the backyard through the windows, and unceremoniously pulls Bucky further up his body and back onto his chest with an all too forceful tug, earning him a yelped, “Hey! Give a guy some warning!” He’d be upset if he didn’t know Steve’s just getting excited over his idea.

“It’s the perfect size,” Steve maneuvers him on his side and points to the semi abandoned grass covered area taking up most of the space. “Look, the pool can fit over there,” he brings himself closer like they’re sharing a secret, red bitten lips brushing against his cheekbone, “and we can have a deck by the small garden here.” Sad looking plants line the right hand side of the yard, a project picked up all too long ago that was supposed to take up most of the land, but was obviously left unfinished. 

Bucky has to admit, redoing their yard is something that’s crossed his mind. While a pool wasn’t necessarily his first choice, it’s not the worst one either. 

“What about all the upkeep?” He wonders how long Steve’s been planning on bringing this up, because the guy’s pulling out all the stops, kissing up his neck and nibbling on the soft skin while he waits for Bucky to think things over. “A pool needs regular cleaning, Steve.”

“We can get someone to come in, no problem,” Steve says against the shell of his ear, hands even more brazenly coming around his hips like he thinks seduction really is the way to go here. Forget about the fact that he needs at least another hour to get it up again after finishing twice not five minutes ago. “You know the backyard’s got that side door, it’ll be fine, come on, honey.”

Bucky cocks his head in contemplation, narrowing his eyes. “Is this some ploy to get a pool boy? You looking to get more eye candy around here?”

Steve laughs against the side of his head, puffs of air messing up his hair. The arm around his waist winds tighter, Bucky feeling the rumble of Steve’s laughter clear down his spine. He snuggles further into Steve’s enveloping bulk, melting against the larger man. 

Huh, Steve’s persuasion tactics might not be that misguided, refractory period be damned. “ _More_ eye candy? You sayin’ you’re the current resident hunk of the house, Buck?”

Bucky turns around in Steve’s embrace, flopping back down onto the unyielding chest and burying his fingers in Steve’s sweat soaked dark blonde hair. “Nah, that’s not how things work around here. We both know _you’re_ the one I keep around just for the view. I mean, look at all these muscles,” he brings his hands down to rub across Steve’s broad shoulders and over his bulging upper arms, exaggeratedly massaging the area as he goes. “Men and women _swoon_ at the sight.” Bucky goes as far as falling limp in Steve’s grip to emphasize the point, dramatically kicking a leg upwards into the air behind him.

Steve snorts, raising an amused eyebrow. “Is that so?” he takes a final long drag before putting out the butt of his cigarette on the windowsill, so he can have both hands to grope at the top of Bucky’s thighs.

“Mm-hmm,” Bucky hums. “But if you wanna get a pool boy or two in here then be my guest. I’m not gonna say no to a revolving door of hot men for me to ogle. Hell, let everyone know this is my new office and be done with it.”

Steve scowls, amusement gone, clutches much more possessive than they are soft and teasing at the crest of his ass. “Fuck that, _I’ll_ clean it. Only guy you’re gonna be drooling over in this house is me, honey.”

A grin takes over Bucky’s face, satisfaction lining his features. “Great! So we’ll get a pool, and you’ll do all the cleaning.” He pats Steve twice on the chest with a firm, “Good deal,” and climbs off to skip out of the studio.

He’s already sauntering into the bathroom to shower when Steve’s shriek of, “Hey, you tricked me!” reaches his ears.

◆

Luke winces while stretching his arms, eyebrows pulled tight in a frown. “I’m never doing that again.” He moves behind the bar, grabbing a menu and tossing it in front of Clint where he and Bucky have found stools to settle onto.

“You wouldn’t think he’d be such a wimp, with at all that bulk, huh?” Bucky asks Clint, who’s looking at Luke in sympathy.

“Maybe that’s a thing,” Clint tilts his head at an angle. “Big guys aren’t supposed to do pilates or something.” Luke had tried out their class as a one off this week, and according to his own proclamations, will _not_ be coming back. “Didn’t you say Steve isn’t a fan either?”

Bucky dismisses Clint’s theory, waving a hand through the air. “Steve’s never even tried, that’s more about him being a stubborn asshole than anything else,” he glances at Clint’s menu before deciding he’ll stick to his usual after all. “Apparently it’s not a good enough workout unless you’re using your fists to pound something to bits. He’s so dumb,” Bucky rolls this eyes, but something in the way Luke and Clint look at him says that the expression on his face is much too fond.

“Sure, Steve Rogers, rocks for brains,” Luke sarcastically drawls, and Bucky pokes the arm that’s already pouring out a Coke for him without prompting, both in reprimand for the cheek and to second his point behind the words. 

Clint contemplates the both of them, eyes sharp as he examines the man he’s only met a few hours ago. “How well do you know Steve?” It suddenly hits Bucky that there might not be any two people on earth who have such different ideas of Steve than these men who he’s somehow roped into being his friends. For one, Clint probably wouldn’t object as vehemently at the thought that Steve was an airhead. Or at least, that’s how things used to be. He’s not quite sure anymore.

Luke shrugs. “Not that well, only talked to the guy a few times.”

“Luke’s my friend from high school,” Bucky explains. “We only got back in touch like a year ago.” Clint’s face clears up in understanding, nodding along. 

“You work with him, right?” Luke asks, grabbing his own cup of iced water. “What’s he like?”

Clint’s eyebrow flies off his forehead, probably quite a flurry of things coming to mind, and not all of them very nice. The look on his face is very quickly tamed into one of unreadable nonchalance. “He’s great in the field. Very, uh, commanding. Great tactical mind.”

“You sound like a history book,” Luke smirks, knowing full well Clint’s got more to say if given the chance. “Everyone knows Captain America’s log line, Clint, you don’t need to remind me.”

Clint laughs lightly at himself, and asks for a burger and fries to buy time. When Luke returns having put in all of their orders, Bucky volunteers, “I bet Steve’s grouchy when on call,” wanting his friend to know that it’s fine to say whatever he wants. “He gets snappy when he’s hungry.” 

It’s not like he hasn’t heard some really shitty things Steve’s teammates have said or implied, though more often than not they weren’t insulting out of malice but simply because of their unfortunate idea of the man embodying Captain Rogers - which is worse in its own way, he supposes.

“He’s not, actually,” Clint argues. “Keeps things on a pretty tight lid when we’re deployed. Always gets antsy the longer he’s away from you, though, Bucky. Can never wait to go the fuck home.”

Bucky tries his best not to blush or let how that gets to him show in any way, but he’s got a feeling he’s failing on both counts. “Yeah, yeah, he loves me, move on,” Bucky feigns indifference.

“Well, now that you’ve mentioned it, maybe he was just hungry all those times,” Luke suggests, and Bucky flips him off. He’s going to hoard the fact that his teammates can tell Steve _misses him_ when he’s being sent off to one corner of the world or another like a particularly shiny pile of treasures. 

Luke continues to wait Clint out, who finally sighs and drums his fingers against the dark slab of wood between them. “He likes to help where he can,” Clint finally says, and while it sounds like it’s more about the Captain than it is Steve, he immediately shoots down that notion by following it up with, “and he wants nothing to do with you otherwise.”

Luke furrows his eyebrows in question. 

“He’s always been very,” Clint chews on the inside of his cheek, “direct, I guess is what I’d call it. All business, that guy. But that’s cool, not everyone’s the outgoing social butterfly, I get it. Some people are quiet, and that can sometimes come off as standoffish.”

“Huh,” Luke side-eyes Bucky, surely thinking of the many times he’s seen Steve come around to Tapped, making himself at home at a corner not so far from where they’re currently sitting, and shoot the shit with the rest of the Roshars. The picture Clint’s painted of Captain Rogers is nothing like what he’s seen in person. “That’s not what I expected to hear.”

“He’s also very generous,” Clint allows. “Not with his time, but pretty much everything else.”

Luke nods along like at least _that_ much he can see. “Such praise,” Bucky murmurs, and Clint laughs as he bumps their shoulders together.

“Come on, Bucky, Steve can be an asshole,” Clint smiles widely. “Often, even.” Their food comes out and Clint picks up a fry, blowing on his fingers when the heat burns his skin. “But,” he sighs, twisting his lips like he’s reluctantly revealing his deepest and darkest secrets, “I’ve liked getting to know him the past couple years. He’s handy with a lot of things, and goddamn that man can be real funny if you’re in on the joke.”

He swears he hears Clint mutter, _maybe you just need to always be in on the joke to get him_.

“Sounds like a catch,” Luke sighs, and the bite in his tone colors Clint’s face in surprise. Bucky can imagine how most people wouldn’t see what could be so awful about your friend being _Captain America_ ’s partner.

Bucky leans heavily across the bar and into Luke’s space. “Aw, you want me to set you guys up on a playdate? You can bond over a bottle of jack right here,” he smacks the edge of the counter. Luke makes a dismissive grunt. “I heard you’ve got quite the catch yourself.”

Luke eyes him suspiciously, and Bucky flashes a shit-eating grin. “What do you know?”

“Hmm,” Bucky pretends to think things over. “Something something Jessica something.” Luke shifts on his feet, and Bucky’s eyes light up in victory. “I _knew_ it! What happened to ‘she was weird’, huh?”

“I think Matt said that,” Luke huffs. When Bucky stares him down anyway, he shrugs, “She grew on me.”

Bucky turns to Clint, gleefully telling him, “Luke’s seduced a borderline shut-in.”

Clint, despite not knowing who Jessica is, is more than happy to join in on the teasing. “Ah, the powers of extraordinary biceps.” Bucky snorts a laugh, but soon loses himself in a blush when Clint unexpectedly asks, “You can’t tell me that’s not how Steve trapped you, too?”

“Don’t lie, I’ve seen you draped all over him when there’s a perfectly fine seat available,” Luke reminds him, even jutting his chin out at their usual table. “You’re all about those arms.”

Bucky’s about to deflect - though he’s honestly not that embarrassed, who _doesn’t_ drool over Steve’s assets? - when Clint suddenly greets someone coming through the door. “Man, what are you doing here?”

Bucky leans around Clint to see a shell-shocked looking Scott. He hovers near the entrance, and only comes closer once Bucky motions him over. Poor guy, he looks almost as nervous as when he and Steve found him at Stark Tower with the Avengers that first time. 

“Uh, just picking up some food,” Scott looks at Clint’s lunch and then back up at Luke, quickly asking for a portion of fries to go. Clint knows Scott lives in Brooklyn, of course, and the team’s gathered that he and Steve would often run into each other given how friendly they are, but he can see how Scott’s concerned about being seen hanging out at a bar Bucky - and supposedly Steve - frequents. 

There’s casual neighborly acquaintance and then there’s, well, working for the other’s organized crime syndicate. The last time he was at the wrong place at the wrong time, Steve almost put a bullet in his mouth.

He wishes he could ease Scott’s worries, tell him there’s nothing incriminating about them running into each other in a random bar in Brooklyn, but the best he can do is smile sweetly and offer for him to stay and join them. 

“Hah, uh, no, thank you,” Scott sticks his hands into shallow jean pockets. “I’m just gonna- Oh hey, that was lightning fast!” he pays and grabs the boxed up fries, patting Luke on the arm. “Great service, keep the change, I have to go now.” He turns back to a bewildered Clint, and meets Bucky’s eyes for a quarter of a panicked second. “Uh, good to see you, Clint.” 

Clint watches Scott all but run out the door. “Is he okay?” he asks the other two.

“Probably late to pick up Cassie or something,” Bucky shrugs. He has the sudden urge to laugh, but he has to admit that he feels bad for Scott, too. He’s going to have to give him a call and tell him that it’s all good. He’s pretty sure the guy knows he and Clint are friends - he’ll have to remind him anyway.

When he sees Luke rub at his forearms for the third time in as many minutes, Bucky rolls his eyes at his friend with an accusing, “Don’t be so dramatic, so you’re a little sore. You’ll feel better once you get in the groove.”

“You should definitely come again next week!” Clint easily agrees. “Come on, the first class is always the worst, it’s all uphill from here. You’re not scared, are you?”

Luke smiles, shaking his head at Clint’s easy friendship and teasing, a mischievous smirk playing across his lips. “How about this: If _Steve_ tries out a class next week, then I will too.”

The prospect all but lights a blaze in Clint’s eyes, hands clasped together in excitement as he swivels in his seat towards Bucky, and he gets ready to decidedly declare that _in no world_ would that ever happen. 

It sure would show Luke, though.

◆

Bucky’s eye is starting to twitch. 

One week into having a pool, and they’re already taking advantage of it as much as possible. Moving their daily grind to the backyard isn’t a problem, of course, he’s enjoying the new addition to his home as much as everyone else. 

Bucky gets to luxuriate in the weather in a refreshing pool, Steve’s lounging around with him sans shirt, and Sam is trying to master the grill and feeding them endless food. All is right in the world.

Clara, however, is on her laptop _in the water_. Or above it, rather.

She’s commandeered a pool float, got a floating beer cozy handy, and has _her laptop perched in her lap_. Every single time the float spins in the breeze, Bucky’s muscles lock up in anxious dread. Even Steve’s lips on the back on his neck isn’t doing anything to loosen him up.

Steve sighs, probably tired of being ignored by his boyfriend, head thumping against the back of the lounge chair where they’ve made themselves at home. “Clara,” he barks out. “Get out of the water, you’re givin’ Buck an aneurysm.”

Clara finally looks up, eyes zeroing in on the fresh burgers and only now realizing their presence. “Come on, eat up,” Sam orders, and she deftly gets out and joins them on the deck. Bucky feels the relieved exhale throughout every inch of his body, seeing that laptop safe and sound on the table. 

Once full and sated, Sam dives into the water, smooth and confident as his body slips under the surface with only a hint of a splash. The control that man has over his limbs always astounds Bucky, and never fails to remind him what it is Sam actually does. 

Bucky stretches out, getting ready to jump in the pool and drag Steve with him, having finished most of his work before their lunch. “I think that’s enough for today,” Steve’s gruff voice prompts Bucky to turn around, finding him snatching Clara’s pills away and stashing them in her bag. “No more work, finish the rest of the food and stick to the seltzer.”

Clara doesn’t look happy but obeys the clear order, biting into a corn on the cob almost pointedly. Steve rolls his eyes and follows Bucky into the pool, shoulders relaxing as he dunks his whole head underwater for two seconds before coming back up.

Steve’s hair touches the bottom of his neck when it’s sopping wet like this, rouge strands obstructing his face. Bucky pushes them back, finding a crinkly eyed smiling face underneath. “That cool you off?” Bucky laughs, unable to resist coming in for a quick peck on the corner of Steve’s mouth.

“Dunno, why don’t you come over here and take my temperature?” Contrary to his own words, Steve advances on him and gets them chest to chest himself, nuzzling into his cheek and pulling Bucky’s legs around his hips.

Bucky lets himself be buoyed into a corner, steering clear of Sam making leisurely laps on the other side. “I don’t think what you’ve got in mind is gonna help with fighting the heat,” Bucky grinds down on Steve’s gradually hardening length. 

“I’d do anythin’ for you, honey, I don’t mind.” 

_That_ makes Bucky cackle, shooting Steve a reprimanding look. “Oh, you don’t mind? Is that all?” Steve’s fingers have of course found their home at the apex of his thighs, helping him move languidly in the water as he keeps up the sway of his hips. With Steve’s body caging him against the side of the pool, the quiet sloshing of the water is almost relaxing. If he closes his eyes he can pretend they’re waves in the ocean. 

They’re not quite trying to get off, and it’s a nice feeling, almost comforting, to move lazily together on a weekday afternoon with no intentions of taking things further. 

Clara calls out a quick, “I’ll get it,” when loud knocks come to the door, where Dani’s probably finally arrived. Bucky indulges himself in basking in Steve’s touches, dragging him impossibly closer with the grip of his ankles around the other’s lower back and licking sweet lemonade from their lunch off Steve’s lips. 

Steve’s tongue is soft and warm against his, tasting him inside and out in return. It’s an unhurried and halfway absentminded embrace, pleasure coiling up at a snail’s pace, and Bucky thinks these kinds of moments shared with Steve must be some of his favorites. He’s never known someone to feel so much like home.

They hear Sam get called inside but pay him no mind, probably dealing with whatever Dani was out to work on today. Bucky giggles as Steve drags his beard across the sensitive skin of his collarbone, halfheartedly trying to push him away. “You’re doing that on purpose,” Bucky shrieks, finally getting Steve half an inch away from his neck. Sure enough, the look in his eye is nothing but guilty amusement. “You weren’t even _pretending_ to use your lips, you jerk-”

“Guys?” Something in Clara’s tone makes them whip around in an instant, looking at the dark haired woman by the backdoor. She cocks her head inside, and they nod their assent, Steve sighing in disappointment at getting interrupted.

Steve brushes their lips together one more time, and pouts at his soon to be ignored, mostly hard dick. “Oh, come on,” Bucky untangles their limbs. “Wash off in the shower and you can get that sorted in two minutes.”

“Two minutes?!” Steve squawks, indignant. Bucky laughs as he lifts himself onto dry land, dodging the swat Steve aims at his backside. “Watch me actually last two minutes next time and _then_ you’ll be sorry,” he warns, climbing out after him. Bucky chooses to dismiss the threat with a snort and head to the bathroom to dry off.

It’s a quick moment later that Bucky’s wrapped in his worn in silk robe, mostly dry, settled with everyone else in the living room. The guys’ faces are grave, and his gut churns further. Sam almost looks _nervous_. 

Steve must sense it too the second he comes out of the bedroom in fresh sweats, teeth grinding to brace himself. “Spit it out,” he grunts, flopping down onto the couch. 

“We figured out how Rafters saw us coming the night Leo died,” Sam all but forces the words out of his mouth. Bucky watches as Steve’s eyes flicker between the three people perched around the room, tension running through every single one of them, though he honestly can’t exactly say that it’s in anticipation of Steve’s anger. 

All they knew was that Leo was killed by security around Evan Rafters that _should not have been there_ , when he and two other Roshars came knocking to collect his ever surmounting debt. The presence of those men when Rafters was supposed to be home alone wove a thread of unease through all of them, and Sam’s been trying to find out why exactly things went down the way it did when it should have been a goddamn milk run.

“It was Deena,” Dani tosses his notebook onto the coffee table, where a list of names are carefully handwritten in a delicate scrawl. He’s never heard the usually jovial warm man sound so gutted and angry, the usual comforting quality around him all but extinguished. “She’s been tipping people off, whenever we’re coming to collect.”

Steve is still as a statue, eyes locked onto the notebook, but Bucky’s vision has tunneled onto the expression on Steve’s face. Instead of a storm of fury, all he can see is disappointment etching every line of his features. He looks quite literally weighed down with crushing sorrow, his upper body bowed into a hunch, the muscles across his back stretched taut and stiff. 

Bucky watches Steve flex his hands, fingers curled into loose fists and hundred year old ring glinting dully in the late afternoon light. He’s never looked so _defeated_ , every barely there wrinkle around his mouth and eyes, the ones marking his forehead, suddenly pronounced and making him look like he’s lived closer to those hundred years he’s been on earth than the short 36.

As Steve runs a thumb across the grooves of the Roshar family crest, Bucky gently moves down the couch to lay a light, comforting palm onto a bare shoulder blade. He understands now what everyone else was steeling themselves for, and why it isn’t anger they’ve got to fear from Steve. 

The Roshars are a family, there’s nothing they value more than loyalty. The fact that Deena, someone who’s been with them for more than a decade, has broken that trust is a punch in the gut, and Steve’s taking it as the punishing blow that it is. The Roshars are strong because of how solid they are, because they care about each other, and are notorious for the lengths they’ll take to help the neighborhood, especially one of their own.

It’s a reputation that’s warranted, Steve and Rita running a tight ship built around core values that go back to Sarah Rogers and Rachel Ashe themselves. A stab in the back from someone within the family is about as harsh and rare as possible.

Bucky places his fingers across the ones gripping that ring, hoping that his presence will stop Steve from breaking his own bones. “Steve,” he lowly whispers, pressing a soft kiss onto the downturned corner of the other man’s lips. 

Bucky coaxes Steve out of this strained state, a hastily contained swirl of loss and despair borne out of the feeling of failure. Failure to protect his people, to see that one of his own had strayed, and to run the Roshars the way he should so that none of them are hurt by someone so close.

He keeps it up until it seems like Steve’s taken his first full breath in minutes. His fingers intertwine with Bucky’s, the skin-warmed piece of jewelry never as unmistakably prominent a presence against his skin as they are now. 

“Is it money?” Steve asks, his voice rough and grating even after being silent for a prolonged moment. The biggest failure in this, of course, is in not cultivating an environment where Deena could feel secure enough to come to them for help instead of resorting to other means of income.

“They were paying her off,” Clara tells him, eyes unguarded and so clearly showing the fresh and stinging wound. “She was taking bribes.”

Bucky almost feels like that much younger and uninitiated kid he was when he first started working for the Roshars, a feeling he hasn’t had for years like he’s missing a step with every single move, when he asks, “Why?” Because of course there’s no real answer to that, not one that would ever be good enough. One glance at Sam says as much.

“We should move quickly,” Dani puts forward, and Steve rubs at his eyes and sighs but nods in agreement. 

“She’s got,” Steve clears his throat and straightens up, looking like it’s the hardest thing he’s ever done, pushing against some unnamable weight resting across his back. “She’s got a brother and her mom, they live with her. We’ll keep them taken care of, as long as they’ll take it.” Dani nods like it’s a no-brainer. “They shouldn’t- Don’t tell them what she did.”

“They’re gonna find out anyway,” Sam reasons. “Someone’s gonna tell them, Steve.”

“Don’t mean it’s gotta be us.” No one argues further.

“Tonight would be best,” Clara suggests, and everyone seems to agree. There’s no question of what will happen, as they all clean up and get ready to head over and go find Rita. The woman will surely come to the same conclusion. There’s no such thing as leaving the Roshars.

◆

It’s almost like Deena was never around. Not one of the Roshars have mentioned her name since, and the only thing left in her wake is the bitterness and melancholy that hang over them like a dark cloud. 

Pietro and Wanda take it hard, having spent their first few months housed by the Roshars with Deena herself. She was the one to help them settle in at their first studio, the one to introduce them to the house, and she even helped them with Erica in those scary few first months of parenthood. 

Bucky finds the blonde man stretched out on the bench out back at the house, watching Erica run around in the backyard. “Coffee?” he offers, and Pietro accepts with a quiet thanks.

“I do not know what to tell her when she starts to ask where Aunt Deena is,” Pietro says into his cup. Bucky watches Erica slide around and get her pants soaked in dirt and mud, and winces at the thought of Pietro dealing with that. Though he supposes the man has bigger worries at the moment.

“Has she asked?” Bucky searches Pietro’s face, young, tired, and thick-skinned. 

Pietro shakes his head. “I guess she will get used to it. We lose people all the time.”

Erica comes over to her dad for a juice box, and dashes back into the slightly overgrown yard before Bucky can ask her what it is exactly she’s playing with amongst the puddles and grass. 

He supposes that Pietro’s right. Erica will grow up with loss as an almost daily occurrence, and she’ll learn exactly what it all means at a very young age. 

He wonders how close that is to how Steve grew up, and guesses that it’s not different at all - it’s the kind of upbringing Rita had, and Maia as well. Even Rhea will have to deal with the harsh truths of having family in the Roshars to a degree, though Bucky finds himself grateful that she won’t be so entrenched in it all as she could have been. He can see now why Maia would want to raise her child on the other side of the country, even more so than he already did.

“I understand how you can feel-,” Bucky wracks his brain for the right words, “different about this.”

Pietro scoffs, blinking rapidly like he’s holding back tears. “She always said that you guys would protect and take care of us, that the Roshars can become our home.” They’re entering murky water, but Bucky’s not that worried about where this conversation’s going, more concerned with how Pietro’s feeling. Even if he did have any concerns about Pietro resenting Steve for the measures he took, they’re quickly stamped out when the young father spits out, “I do not understand why she did this. It is _so stupid_.”

Pietro, having started out wary and careful with Steve and most everyone, hasn’t tiptoed around the subject of Deena at all. Instead, he’s been pouring out his confusion and frustration in that soft, accented voice, trying to marry the idea of caring, friendly Deena with the actions that brought her her fate.

No one’s minded too much, the silence around the subject more voluntary than it is something they have to adhere to. “I don’t know, Pietro. People do things for a lot of reasons.”

He turns to Bucky, lips curved in a wry smile. “I betrayed and left the Chicago Mob, I know it is done, but I thought-” When Pietro doesn’t say anything else, Bucky leans and presses their sides together to offer comfort.

“I’m sorry, Pietro,” Bucky tells the younger man, who returns the sentiment, knowing full well he’s not the only one upset by everything that’s happened. Deena did more than just earn extra cash on the side. She put all of them in danger, their work and welfare, and it all resulted in losing Leo. Everyone’s dealing differently, though none of them are unaffected.

Steve is another matter entirely. 

He was low for as long as it took for the body to get cold, and then very deliberately did everything he could to not sink into the festering ache. Getting rid of someone you considered family just the day before committing the act leads to a tangle of guilt in itself, not to mention all the things it digs up from the last time Steve had to weed the Roshars of its less than loyal members when he first woke up and came home. 

How Steve handles _Bucky’s_ coping is unfortunately the bigger problem, though it doesn’t come to a head for a while. It builds over weeks.

◆

△

The restaurant is nice. It’s got nothing on Val’s place, but Bucky’s face soured when Steve offered to get them a table there - not that he knows why.

So they’re at a trendy steakhouse that’s been a jewel of Brooklyn for years, low lights and good food a trademark, a delightful date night to treat his boyfriend if he says so himself. Or it would have been, if Bucky hasn’t been so cold all night. 

At first Steve thought Buck was just getting lost in his head on the drive over, but even as they’re seated and placing orders, he’s still quiet and downright frosty. “Are you wearing the new shirt I got you?” Steve asks, pulling at his own collar without thinking. “I thought you woulda liked it, Pat said they just got it in.” 

“No, I’m not,” Bucky keeps his eyes on the menu.

“Oh,” Steve runs his eyes down the light colored shirt. “You didn’t like it?”

Bucky flips over a page. “It was fine.”

“I’ll get you something else, then,” Steve asserts, and something unpleasant comes over Bucky’s face. He decides to ignore it for now. The waiter comes back after five minutes of silence, taking their orders and getting the sommelier to recommend a couple bottles of wine to pair, both of them wasting no time to get lost with the tense air around their corner of the room. 

“Bucky,” Steve tries to imbue the two syllables with all of his questions, and maybe he’s succeeded because for the first time tonight he sees a flicker of emotion in the other man’s eyes. “Buck, honey, what’s going on?”

Bucky clenches his jaw, the muscles in his neck visibly twitching. “What is this?”

Steve has to stop himself from looking around them to find what it is Bucky’s referring to. He has a feeling it would only aggravate the younger man more. “Dinner?” When he gets nothing in response, definitely not a _no_ , he tries, “I wanted to do somethin’ nice, treat you-”

The waiter comes with their drinks, makes two heavy pours in silence, and retreats strategically.

Bucky waits for him to pick up where he left off. “I can’t treat you, once in a while? Come on, Buck, you deserve it, how am I gonna convince you to let me stick around if I don’t-”

“Cut it out,” Bucky bites out. “You’ve been pulling this shit ever since Deena,” Steve can’t help but flinch at that, “and I’m sick of it.” 

He knows what Bucky’s talking about, of course. The little treats he keeps shoving at the brunette, the clothes, and the food, and the daily baking of his favorite pastries. It’s not like any of it has been subtle. 

Steve keeps his eyes trained on the cream colored tablecloth, the material finely embroidered and coarse against his fingertips, and maybe that makes him a coward. “I’m just tryin’ to-” What _was_ he trying to do? Make Bucky feel better? Distract him? “To make things right.” Even as the words leave his lips, he knows that’s not true.

Unfortunately, he gets interrupted before he can take it back, the restaurant well aware of who it is they’ve got dining tonight and clearly expediting their meals. For fuck’s sake, they must have basically taken the food from someone else’s orders, with how quick they’re ready.

Two waiters arrive with a delicious looking porterhouse steak and ribeye, the woman by Bucky’s shoulder announcing a short and sweet, “Enjoy,” before making herself scarce. Steve even sees her motioning to the other guy to move his ass from the corner of his eye.

The chill from the other side of the table has turned into the bite of low burning coals, simmering and hot to the touch. It’s the kind of anger he’s only provoked in Bucky less than a handful of times. “If it’s guilt that’s eating you up, Steve, I refuse to serve you your penance,” Bucky spits out. “Go to confession with Father Walsh like the rest of the Roshars, screw your goddamn war-torn catholicism.”

Steve doesn’t even pretend like he’s got any intentions of touching his food. The truth is, he’s _not_ struggling with his guilt. This has always been the world he’s lived in, the life he leads. Everyone comes in knowing the stakes and that their actions have consequences. He has very few qualms about what had to be done. 

He finds himself saying, “She was your friend,” because that’s the real reason behind all of this, isn’t it? “Don’t fuckin’ tell me that you’re okay with me-,” he grits his teeth until he can barely feel them in his jaw. “I’m tryin’ to make it up to you.” Bucky’s only been in this business for a few years - he has a right to be concerned. Sure, he’s seen people die, some at Steve’s own hands or the people around him. But it’s never been like this, where it was Bucky’s _friend_ taken out by Steve himself. 

This may just be how things have always worked for him for as long as Steve can remember, but he’s painfully aware that that’s not the case for Bucky. 

It’s a long minute before he hears a deliberate and low commanding voice, one that conveys undeniable hurt all the same, come out of those soft, flushed lips that’s he’s kissed countless times before. “You’ve never treated me like I’m stupid, or like I’m lesser than. Don’t you dare start now.”

Steve deserves that. Bucky’s right. 

He’s always trusted Buck to speak his mind if something did bother him. He would have spoken up, made his argument heard, because his voice is just as valued as the rest of the guys’. To imply that it isn’t the case, that he can only follow blindly and live with the aftermath is insulting. 

Maybe he was trying to distract himself, from the gnawing fear that the man he loves will finally see how rotten Steve truly is. He must realize now who it is sharing his bed, touching him like he’s worthy of the privilege. 

“I’m sorry,” Steve whispers, and lifts his eyes to meet the arresting pair of pale grey across from him. “I didn’t want you to-,” the words slip out before he can stop them, “to leave me.” He takes a deep breath and pushes through now that he’s at this precipice. “I don’t understand how you can be with me with all ‘a the things I’ve done.” He gulps, maybe in some attempt at swallowing down the words, but they escape anyway. “Everything I still do.”

God, he sounds pathetic - not that it’s untrue. Steve must look incredibly pitiful, but Bucky’s ire hasn’t lessened one bit. It seems like with every word he says, Buck’s finding more and more to be upset about. “Stop finding these _idiotic_ reasons and roundabout ways of giving me the chance to leave,” he leans slightly over the table, grasping the edge in a white knuckled grip. “Like you’re _testing me_ -”

“I’m not test-” Steve can’t help but raise his voice - the idea of him ever doing that is absolutely repulsive and infuriating.

“Has it ever occurred to you,” Bucky cuts him off, “that I’m not perfect?” He seems to gather himself and lean back in his seat. “I walked into this life with both eyes wide open, just like everybody else. Stop putting me on a fucking pedestal.” Steve is startled to feel warm fingers sliding between his own on the table, the contrast of Bucky’s words with the gentle touch. “You’re not as awful as you seem to think you are, Steve. And I’m not as good as you make me out to be.”

“I’m sorry,” Steve tries again, because he is.

Bucky gracefully gets onto his feet and makes his way around the table to stand by his side, burying both those long delicate fingers into his beard and pressing them against the underside of his jaw, tilting his head so that they’re face to face. “Don’t do it again,” he all but demands, crouched down so that their lips are no more than an inch apart. 

Steve nods, knowing this is a promise he’ll keep until his dying day. Bucky presses a firm kiss onto his temple, and straightens back up. His wallet is quickly pulled out and a large wad of cash makes its way onto the table, enough to cover their bill and then some. 

Steve stares at it for a while, the fruits of Bucky’s labor in their line of work, and sees it for what it is - money that’s just as dirty and bloody as his own.

Bucky’s right, he hasn’t been fair. They’re not all that different, at the end of the day.

“Alright, sweetheart, let’s go home,” Steve lets Bucky pull him out of his seat and trap him with a long look, pools of blue and grey clawing into his soul. He tangles their fingers together before taking Steve’s arm and draping it across his slender shoulders, leading him out.

Steve burns the feeling of having Bucky warm and trusting against him into his memories, praying to that long forgotten god that he gets to keep this forever.

▽

◆

The drive home is quiet, but it’s a different kind than the one they sat in earlier in the night. 

Bucky’s not pleased with the way Steve handled things, how he perceived the circumstances and made assumptions about how he feels - but he’s not angry. He’s given Steve a piece of his mind and the man took it on the chin. 

They talked it out, he made himself clear, and he knows for a fact that they’re better off for it. It’s the reason they work so well, because they listen to each other, even if Bucky needs to knock some sense into Steve’s head. 

That night, Steve fucks into him without the usual flattery, though not without words - they’re just whispered low enough that he can’t make them out, only catching a pet name here and there and the echo of his own gasps. Steve whispers hushed worshipful praise into his skin, the crease of his thigh, the soft flesh of his hips, and even the tops of his asscheeks. 

Bucky may have set things straight about where it is they stand in terms of being on the moral high ground - or not being on it, as is the case - but he knows Steve will never stop raining adoring compliments down on him. 

Tonight, it seems to be more for his own pleasure than Bucky’s, which is just fine by him. Even without hearing Steve’s sweet talk, his deep honeyed voice is as reverent as it always is, coating every inch of him and sinking into his bones. 

Steve’s unyielding and heavy against his back, bowed over his shoulder and relentless in his fervent thrusts. Bucky can’t tear his eyes away from those stormy blues, and he cranes his neck to crash their lips together, holding onto Steve’s jaw to keep him in place and muffle his cries against that mouth. 

Bucky can’t say that it’s the first time they’ve made love with both of them stripped so bare to the core, seeing one another for everything they are, because they’ve never tried to hide when it came to this intimate act of sharing their bodies and expressing their love in more physical ways. 

He does, however, feel raw and broken open, like every touch of Steve’s is grazing a nerve deep inside of him, and it leaves him breathless. Being cherished and doted on has always made him feel loved like he’s never been before, but knowing that Steve still adores him even when well aware that he isn’t some flawless person that’s too good to be true is intoxicating in its own way.

He barely remembers drifting off and falling asleep.

Bucky wakes Steve up the next morning with a particularly enthusiastic blowjob, and the blonde fucks his face twice before softening and returning the favor, this time with loud declarations of how _so very sweet_ Bucky is, and his _perfect fuckin’ thighs_ , and his _favorite goddamn dimple_. It’s good to know Steve’s found his voice.

He uses it to apologize one last time, a cut off, “I swear that ain’t how I see-,” before Bucky kisses him mid ramble.

“Good. Now go make me breakfast.” Steve leaps out of bed, face scruffy and flushed, looking back down at him sprawled across the bedsheets. “What are you looking at, Rogers? I need my coffee.”

Steve leans down to lay one on him, both of them smiling into the kiss. “Okay, Buck, comin’ right up.”

Bucky buries his face into the still warm sheets, shifting around to cover himself in their unending layers of blankets. It’s only two short minutes of dozing on Steve’s pillow before the man himself returns, a cup of coffee and another brimming with hot tea ready in either hand. He crawls back into bed, looking all too happy to have Bucky snuggling into his side. 

Bucky reaches up and brushes his lips against Steve’s, tasting bittersweet tea and the stale sourness of an early morning. They need to get ready for the day, but if they could stay in this cocoon forever, Bucky would choose to in a heartbeat.

“Thanks,” Bucky kisses Steve’s shoulder after taking his mug and a short steaming sip, bumping his nose into the hard muscle without thought. Steve hums a response and lets him cuddle up, pressing his lips against the unruly curls at the top of his head. “We’ve got lunch with Rita today,” Bucky reminds him, eyeing the clock and mere few hours they’ve got left to start the day.

“Yeah,” Steve breathes out, curling an arm around him and pulling the both of them further down. “Just a little longer.” Bucky doesn’t put up a fight, having no desire to end their cozy morning early. He’d give most anything to stay in this bubble of warmth forever, reveling in the tranquil silence and perfect company.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell me any and everything if you’re so inclined! Feedback is always greatly appreciated.
> 
> Next installment coming soon.


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